Abraham Daniel - A Betrayal in Winter

that, and they've all been wrong eventually.

The servant stopped before the elm-and-oak-inlaid door that led, Maati

remembered, to a meeting chamber. He scratched it twice to announce

them, then opened the door and motioned Maati in. Maati breathed deeply

as a man preparing to dive from a cliff into shallow water and entered.

The Dai-kvo was sitting at his table. He had not had hair since Maati

had met him twenty-three summers before when the Dai-kvo had only been

Tahi-kvo, the crueler of the two teachers set to sift through the

discarded sons of the Khaiem and utkhaiem for likely candidates to send

on to the village. His brows had gone pure white since he'd become the

Dai-kvo, and the lines around his mouth had deepened. His black eyes

were just as alive.

The other two men in the room were strangers to Maati. The thinner one

sat at the table across from the Dai-kvo, his robes deep blue and gold,

his hair pulled back to show graying temples and a thin whiteflecked

heard. The thicker-with both fat and muscle, Maati thought-stood at

window, one foot up on the thick ledge, looking into the gardens, and

Maati could see where his clean-shaven jaw sagged at the jowl. His robes

were the light brown color of sand, his boots hard leather and travel

worn. He turned to look at Maati as the door closed, and there was

something familiar about him-about both these new men-that he could not

describe. He fell into the old pose, the first one he had learned at the

school.

"I am honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo."

The Dai-kvo grunted and gestured to him for the benefit of the two

strangers.

"This is the one," the Dai-kvo said. The men shifted to look at him,

graceful and sure of themselves as merchants considering a pig. Maati

imagined what they saw him for-a man of thirty summers, his forehead

already pushing hack his hairline, the smallest of pot bellies. A soft

man in a poet's robes, ill-considered and little spoken of. He felt

himself start to blush, clenched his teeth, and forced himself to show

neither his anger nor his shame as he took a pose of greeting to the two

men.

"Forgive me," he said. "I don't believe we have met before, or if we

have, I apologize that I don't recall it."

"We haven't met," the thicker one said.

"He isn't much to look at," the thin one said, pointedly speaking to the

Dai-kvo. The thicker scowled and sketched the briefest of apologetic

poses. It was a thread thrown to a drowning man, but Nlaati found

himself appreciating even the empty form of courtesy.

"Sit down, Maati-cha," the Dal-kvo said, gesturing to a chair. "Have a

bowl of tea. There's something we have to discuss. Tell me what you've

heard of events in the winter cities."

Maati sat and spoke while the Dai-kvo poured the tea.

"I only know what I hear at the teahouses and around the kilns, most

high. There's trouble with the glassblowers in Cetani; something about

the Khai Cetani raising taxes on exporting fishing bulbs. But I haven't

heard anyone taking it very seriously. Amnat-Tan is holding a summer

fair, hoping, they say, to take trade from Yalakeht. And the Khai Machi ..."

Maati stopped. He realized now why the two strangers seemed familiar;

who they reminded him of. The Dai-kvo pushed a fine ceramic bowl across

the smooth-sanded grain of the table. Maati fell into a pose of thanks

without being aware of it, but did not take the bowl.

"The Khai Machi is dying," the Dal-kvo said. "I Iis belly's gone rotten.

It's a sad thing. Not a good end. And his eldest son is murdered.

Poisoned. What do the teahouses and kilns say of that?"

"That it was poor form," Maati said. "'t'hat no one has seen the Khaiem

resort to poison since Udun, thirteen summers ago. But neither of the

brothers has appeared to accuse the other, so no one ... Gods! You two

are ..."

"You see?" the Dai-kvo said to the thin man, smiling as he spoke. "No,

not much to look at, but a decent stew between his ears. Yes, Maati-cha.

The man scraping my windowsill with his boots there is Danat Machi. This

is his eldest surviving brother, Kaiin. And they have come here to speak

with me instead of waging war against each other because neither of them

killed their elder brother Biitrah."

"So they ... you think it was Otah-kvo?"

"The Dai-kvo says you know my younger brother," the thickset

man-Danat-said, taking his own seat at the only unoccupied side of the

table. "Tell me what you know of Otah."

"I haven't seen him in years, Danat-cha," Maati said. "He was in

Saraykcht when ... when the old poet there died. He was working as a

laborer. But I haven't seen him since."

"Do you think he was satisfied by that life?" the thin one-Kaiin- asked.

"A laborer at the docks of Saraykeht hardly seems like the fate a son of

the Khaiem would embrace. Especially one who refused the brand."

Maati picked up the bowl of tea, sipping it too quickly as he tried to

gain himself a moment to think. The tea scalded his tongue.

"I never heard Otah speak of any ambitions for his father's chair,"

Maati said.

"And is there any reason to think he would have spoken of it to you?"

Kaiin said, the faintest sneer in his voice. Maati felt the blush

creeping into his cheeks again, but it was the Dai-kvo who answered.

""There is. Otah Machi and Maati here were close for a time. They fell

out eventually over a woman, I believe. Still, I hold that if Otah had

been bent on taking part in the struggle for Machi at that time, he

would have taken Maati into his confidence. But that is hardly our

concern. As Maati here points out, it was years ago. Otah may have

become ambitious. Or resentful. There's no way for us to know that-"

"But he refused the brand-" Danat began, and the Dai-kvo cut him off

with a gesture.

"There were other reasons for that," the Dai-kvo said sharply. "They

aren't your concern."

Danat Nlachi took a pose of apology and the Dai-kvo waved it away. Maati

sipped his tea again. 't'his time it didn't burn. To his right, Kaiin

Machi took a pose of query, looking directly at Maati for what seemed

the first time.

"Would you know him again if you saw him?"

"Yes," Maati said. "I would."

"You sound certain of it."

"I am, Kaiin-cha."

The thin man smiled. All around the table a sense of satisfaction seemed

to come from his answer. Maati found it unnerving. The Daikvo poured

himself more tea, the liquid clicking into his bowl like a stream over

stones.

"'T'here is a very good library in Machi," the Dai-kvo said. "One of the

finest in the fourteen cities. I understand there are records there from

the time of the Empire. One of the high lords was thinking to go there,

perhaps, to ride out the war, and sent his hooks ahead. I'm sure there

are treasures hidden among those shelves that would be of use in binding

the andat."

"Really?" Maati asked.

"No, not really," the Dai-kvo said. "I expect it's a mess of poorly

documented scraps overseen by a librarian who spends his copper on wine

and whores, but I don't care. For our purposes, there are secrets hidden

in those records important enough to send a low-ranking poet like

yourself to sift though. I have a letter to the Khai Machi that will

explain why you are truly there. IIc will explain your presence to the

utkhaiem and Cehmai 'Ivan, the poet who holds Stone-Made-Soft. Let them

think you've come on my errand. What you will be doing instead is